Throwbacks: Call me a realist, but the stars are dead to me.

I wondered a little wonder this afternoon: Does wishing on a star count if we know the star we are wishing on is just an image of a star that died a long time ago?

Are wishes really valid then?

Can lingering images grant the thoughtful longings of romantics, or are we better off wishing into the blackness — the space between the stars — so that maybe, one day, when the light of those stars reaches Earth our wish will come true for someone else?

Would that have worked for peace in the Middle East? If I ever see Jesus, maybe I’ll ask.

They glint, and they flicker like laughter — they must be laughing at the absurdity of human emotion, of life’s tribulations.

We are so frail compared to them, aren’t we? Our lives are measured in years; theirs, in eons. The stars are millions of light years away, and ancient. But they’re already dead by the time we see them — maybe that’s our strength:

Compared to the dead, glittering stars, Humanity seems strong.

At least we can see the living while they live, and the dead when they die. Stars don’t get a choice. Why DO we find such faith and beauty within the dead?

Are shooting stars really shooting at all, or have they just been shot? It seems like they fall more to me —

in a clean, quick arc across the sky.

Falling. Dead.

***

Was going through Facebook notes and found this... it still holds true. So I wanted to share it. Again.